Simon picked his way over the rocky path, both his ankles pulsing with pain. The scree ribbon twisted over hills that had not borne grain for generations. All it gave was dust to any wind cruel enough to scream. His eyes were set on the horizon, on a lonesome tree, its sparse leaves becoming a mid-summer dandruff. He trudged, his footsteps with neither accompaniment of birdsong nor floral scent.
The ghost’s silver forms were a mat of scars, cut on cut on cut. Their skin must have been hyde thick in life. All that pain with a hundred fold the effort to heal than to slice. With grace, heads raised, they would glide to us each night and sing. Each song was an ocean of tears transcending into sound. At first it all seemed so pointless, scarred they came and scarred they left. But then, months into their visitations we saw it, after each song a scar would vanish. One day they will sing their last; one day they will be free.
The shadow mountain was ringed with arrows of light, as if heaven's archers sat upon the graphite clouds. It's ragged feet, usually a sullen grey, bore the dance of gold with the good humour of a vampire. In the early light, amid the rising vapour, they knew the calling hour had come. This is what they had trained for, this was their destiny.
My soul rides aboard a paper parasol, eyes wide to the dreaming land. Every vivid hue is where pastel meets neon haze. Into the air I whoop, my lungs singing in anti-thunder boom. Then from my brain comes bubbles of happy rainbow swirl, each of them a snow globe that is to winter quite unknown.
In dawn’s emboldening rays, the flute sleeps. All the dayshine hours it dreams, reed still, brassy keys at rest. Then, come the eventide, at light lip’s command, its dovish hoots are conjured forth. Night isn’t night as its notes resonate to fill the auditorium. With eyes wide shut, its sound transports us to the height of summer in every season.
From each gentle raindrop came a fingerprint drawn in light. On top of the smudged trees of autumn, it was as if the very water was on fire. The air had that aroma, the one that comes when wet leaves begin to turn into new earth. How I loved the sound, the gentle percussion, as if the lake were a drum for the heavens. As my skin goose-bumped and a shiver travelled my spine, I knew it was time to head for home.